Look, it’s the 20s again, right? So let me expat to Paris as an American writer, drink too much, meet some other writers, artists, flappers, and other creative spirits as we make plans to do the most romantic and weirdest shit, and then write something that ends up being hated and loved by the English majors of the future. That’s all I want, but we’re in a pandemic and my country’s reputation is far worse than it was a century ago. At least I’m vaccinated.